The following Friday evening, I found my mom in the living room. She was staring vacantly out the window and cracking pistachio nuts into a bowl.
“Jonah wasn’t in school today,” I told her. “And he’s not answering his phone. I’m going over there to drop off his homework, okay?”
“Mmm—” she replied. Her eyes never left the window.
I peered over her shoulder into the street. “Why are you staring at the neighbor’s house?”
“The Greenwalds have such a big family,” she said, a touch of envy coloring her voice. “Eight kids, I think. When I walk past their home, it’s never quiet. Except on Friday evenings.”
“Oh. That’s nice. Have you met them?”
“No.” For some reason, she seemed sad when she answered me.
“Is it okay if I head out now?” I asked after a pause. “I want to get there before dark.”
She turned away from the window, and her distracted eyes focused on me. “That’s fine. But I thought you should know that I’ve been talking to Jonah’s mother,” she told me. “She’s trying to convince him to see Dr. Steiner this week.”
I shook my head. “You realize he’ll say no, right?”
“I know he will. But Rachel was hoping you can get him used to the idea. So far, he’s refused every time she’s brought it up. We thought that if you talked to him, maybe he would listen.”
I began to back away. “I’m sorry, I won’t do that. I have to be on his side. I’m not going to nag him like his mom.”
“But something’s obviously wrong. If we ignore Jonah’s symptoms, they’ll only get worse. Rachel’s worried because her brother suffered from bipolar disorder for years before he was finally diagnosed. And how would you feel if Jonah totally lost control, if he tried to hurt himself…”
I couldn’t listen to her. I’d promised Jonah to give him room, to let him deal with it on his own. How could I begin pestering him without completely losing his trust?
“No, Mom, I’m sorry. I’m not going to help his mom drag him to a bunch of doctors. I won’t betray him like that.”
“It’s not a betrayal!” she said, her voice rising. “You have an obligation to your boyfriend. Don’t you understand that? If the positions were reversed and you were suffering, wouldn’t you want him to help you?”
“Yes, I would. But not like that.” I turned my back to her. “Everyone just needs to leave us alone.”
“Where are you going? I’m not finished talking to you.”
“Well, I’m finished talking to you!”
“April, stop this stupid tantrum and listen to me. I’ve been quiet long enough. But I have to tell you when you’re making a mistake. Look, I understand what you’re going through…”
“Oh, I bet you do!” I wheeled about to face her again. “Remind me, when your family was pressuring you to turn against my father, what did you do?”
She gasped as if I’d punched her. We’d always had an unspoken agreement that I would never mention the family she’d lost. I’d never broken that silence, because I didn’t want to hurt her. But in that moment, I didn’t care.
I fled the house before she could speak again. She called me as I was nearing Jonah’s house. I stared at the phone, then pressed reject, and walked up to the door.
There was no answer to my knock. I peeked in through the open shades. The main level was quiet, but a faint sound of music drifted down from the upstairs window. I put my hand on the doorknob and turned; it was unlocked, and the door creaked open. I laid Jonah’s math assignment on the dining room table and shouted his name. He didn’t reply, but as I climbed the stairs, the beat of a U2 song echoed in the hallway.
I’d lifted my hand to knock when Jonah’s voice came booming out from behind the bedroom door. He was screaming at someone inside. “I won’t listen to you anymore!” he yelled. “Please, just leave me alone!”
There was a short pause, the familiar, rhythmic drum of his boxing glove slamming into the punching bag, and then another cry. “I won’t do it! I won’t! Just burn in hell! I don’t believe you!”
More thumping sounds and then a string of curses—ugly, hateful words, a wailing torrent of abuse. I’d never heard him swear like that. Who could he be cursing at? I didn’t hear anyone else in the room. Was he on his phone? And if he was, how was he holding up the cell and beating the bag so frantically at the same time?
Then the screaming faded; there was a pitiful sobbing, the dull thud of a body collapsing to the ground. I wavered uncertainly in the hall for a minute and then placed my ear against the door. “Please, God, I can’t,” he pleaded. “I can’t, I can’t. Please, make them go away. Please just make them stop.”
This last sound was much worse than the frantic screaming; I couldn’t stand to listen anymore. I tapped softly on the door and called his name.
There was a brief silence and then the shuffle of footsteps. Jonah threw open the door and stared blankly at me. He looked awful; his hair was mussed and damp, his face was streaked with sweat, and his knuckles were torn and bleeding. His eyes were bloodshot, as if he hadn’t slept in days.
“Jonah,” I began hesitantly. “I came by to bring you your homework—”
He didn’t let me finish. With a rough gesture, he took my arm and pulled me into the room, then grabbed his cell phone off the desk and pressed it into my hand. “Take it away,” he begged. “Take the damn thing away. I don’t want to see it anymore.”
Without a word, I slipped his phone into my pocket and took his swollen fingers in mine. He allowed me to lead him to his bed, and without protest, he lay back limply on the pillow that I placed beneath his head. I picked up a towel from the floor and moistened it with water from the bathroom sink, then carefully wrapped his bleeding hand. He shivered when I tried to wash the crusted blood away. I suddenly realized how cold it was; he’d left the window open, and the frosty December air had chilled the room. He was only wearing a light T-shirt and boxers, even though his hands were icy and his fingernails were blue. I shut the window, pulled an extra comforter from the closet, and covered him, then ran the wet washcloth over his forehead and smoothed his tangled curls. He turned to face the wall and closed his eyes.
I watched him for a little while and thought about what I’d heard. Could that have been his father on the phone? Katie had mentioned an awful scene between her father and brother and complained that they hadn’t spoken to each other since. But besides the brief discussion about his dad’s portrait, Jonah had never spoken about his dad, and I’d never pressed him for an explanation. What could Dr. Golden have done to make him scream that way? I’d never even heard Jonah raise his voice before. And I couldn’t imagine talking like that to my parents, no matter how furious I was. It wasn’t just an average yelling match; Jonah had been violently abusive, in a way that actually frightened me.
There was a distant rumble of a car engine and the sound of the front door opening below. Lady barked, and Katie’s chirping voice echoed through the house. I was strangely relieved that they were home; for the first time in our relationship, I was actually afraid to be alone with Jonah. He’d never been anything but gentle with me, but the person I’d heard swearing into the phone was a stranger. I needed to understand this better. I had to ask his mom about Jonah’s history with his father.
But then I realized there was an easier way. I held the answer in my pocket; Jonah had handed me his phone. I crept out into the hallway, closed the door behind me, pulled out his cell, and clicked on “call history.”
I expected to find a call from his father. I was actually hoping for it, because at least that would have made some sense. A screaming match with his dad, some bully from his past, even a call from an old girlfriend would have been okay. Anything would have been better than what I found.
The phone’s log showed nothing. He had not dialed a number or received a call from anyone that day.